The Sword of Morning Star

by Richard Meade

  But the tower was full of life. The birds nesting in its upper levels stirred and quorked; sometimes a bat fluttered down into the light. Outside, too, life seemed to be stirring; once something bumped against the door and careened off. Helmut’s left hand drew the shortsword, but the sound did not come again. Another time, he thought something snuffled about the base of the tower, but he could not be sure; and he quailed at the idea of opening the door to see and challenge it. Presently, he laid the book aside and wandered aimlessly about the room.

  It was as full of clutter as the day he had first seen it. Never, in his vision, did Sandivar use the curious apparatus on the table, the weird contraptions of glass and iron and clay, nor had Sandivar ever explained to him the contents of the apothecar’s jars, which were labeled in a script foreign to the boy. Now, his curiosity piqued, he opened each in its turn, sniffing its contents. Many of them were fragrant and some so sharp his head swam, and then there were others which were indescribably foul, the very reek of them evoking waking nightmares in his brain, their stench somehow burdened with death and worse than death, filling the room with obscenities of odor. These latter cured him quickly of meddling; presently he flung himself down on the bed and tried to sleep.

  But odd words kept trampling through his brain like galloping stallions—Rage, Vengeance, Death, Destruction. He would return to Boorn, Sandivar had said, and all these would accompany him as servants and companions. No, that was beyond understanding. Then he remembered something else: action enough even for the blood of Sigrieth—

  Suddenly his father’s name conjured up in him a host of memories. Sigrieth, the bearded giant, the warrior-king, armored and helmed; yet, with gray-blue eyes that could turn gentle as spring rain, hands that could caress as well as chastise. Two years now had he been dead, of a sickness no physician could diagnose, the enormous frame wasting to a skeleton, the fierce eyes glazing and dulling. Helmut felt remembered grief clog his throat: he had worshipped his father, and never had Sigrieth hesitated to display his own love for his sons—but, of the two, poor Gustav had pleased him least and Helmut most.

  But there had never been any question of Helmut’s succeeding to the throne. “These things,” he remembered the soft, deep voice saying, “are difficult to explain to one so young. But kings must marry the daughters of kings, and it is the child of such a union who must rule. Still, kings love. The merry eyes, the lovely face, the murmuring voice, the graceful neck, the musical laugh—kings are no more proof against all these than other mortals.” He had closed the locket from which the exquisitely painted miniature of the sweet-faced young woman had looked out with startlingly lifelike presence. “So that a king’s love and a king’s marriage may be two different things, and a king’s children two different breeds.” He put the locket in his tunic, Sigrieth did, and turned his face away, for the moment, from the child on his oaken knee. Then he said: “Perhaps as well that she died in giving birth to you; I mean, as well for the Kingdom of Boorn. For she was of common, not royal, blood, and the people would ne’er have accepted her here. That being so, well might I have given up my throne to go and live with her in some peasant’s hut, had it come to that…” His hand had stroked Helmut’s shoulders. “You are what she left me, and enough; and you shall be a king’s son in everything but inheritance. No difference shall I make between you and Gustav in my affection save this: that Gustav is firstborn and true son of a true marriage and by that accident must have the kingdom. Only if he dies do you succeed. But a finer legacy is yours, for you have her laugh.” Then he had dumped Helmut off his lap. “Now, up: to Vincio. This morning must you learn to draw bow to full nock…”

  Lying on the tower bed, Helmut used his one hand to knuckle at his burning eyes, thinking that neither would he see his father nor draw bow again, that he was alone and far from home, bereft of family and all he had loved. And yet, Sandivar had said he would go back. But Sandivar must jest. For he was just past twelve in years; and no child could return to Boorn and take it back from Albrecht of Wolfsheim, whatever an old man should talk of Rage, Vengeance, Death, and Destruction. Aye, Sandivar was mad, and he would never see Boorn and the great palace of Marmorburg again.

  Thinking such bitter thoughts, he lay staring at the smoke-blackened stones above until the torches guttered and died; and only then did he sleep.

  Morning erased all gloom. When Helmut flung open the tower door, a cool sea wind kissed his face, and the sun poured out gold to the poor marshes as it rose. White birds circled and flapped against the sky, and the tang of salt and strange, distant places was enough to make blood tingle in its channels. He stood, naked, and stretched high his hand and stump, letting the dawn wind blow over him. And in that moment, he knew that it would be impossible to keep his promise and stay here on the island. Silently, and yet as if they shouted, the marshes in all their vastness called to him to come.

  He went inside, donned kirtle and sword belt. There he hesitated. Sandivar’s presence seemed all around, rebuking. But through the doorway came again that stirring smell of salt and distance; Helmut sighed and hurried back out into morning light.

  Full of resolve, he went to the small dugout in which he had been set adrift on the Jaal. Sandivar used it with some frequency now and had cut a long pole, which was shipped under the single thwart. His heart pounding, everything but the lust for adventure pushed from his mind by the spell of morning, Helmut worked the craft afloat, splashed through the mud, jumped in; then, with only the one hand, he unshipped the pole.

  It took some doing. He had watched Sandivar often enough, but he’d little experience himself in poling a boat. He floundered and rocked around the shallows by the island as he practised. By holding the pole with his left hand and pushing against it as well with his right forearm, he found that he could control the boat tolerably well. Surely it would do no harm simply to circle the island; that much exercise he needed, was entitled to, and since the tower could be seen for miles, there was no danger of getting lost.

  Then he remembered the mroggs.

  It was, of course, possible that so fantastic a creature might exist. But, it suddenly occurred to him, it was also possible that it had been invented by Sandivar only to frighten him, lest he stray too far and lose himself in the fens. Certainly, the more he thought, the more probable seemed the latter. Anyhow, mroggs never came near the island. He would not go far from the island.

  Silently, the boat slipped through the marsh, and Helmut gained skill with every movement of the pole, standing in the stern. He liked the sensation of gliding; it was akin, he thought, to what flying must be like; and as each more skillful push sent the boat farther on, he left the clear water immediately around the island and was confronted by a wall of reeds and grasses higher than his head. Various channels opened in them enticingly, like the aisles of great churches, extending straight onward for yards, then turning abruptly, temptingly, so that if one were to follow such a channel, there would, every little way, always be a new corner to round, a new surprise…

  He hesitated. Then he picked one at random and sent the boat gliding down its corridor. The high reeds towered over him, blocking off the sky; suddenly he began to feel imprisoned. Although the sun was well up the sky, it was very dark in this place; and the farther he went, the blacker the water became, stained and dyed by generation after generation of dead vegetation turned to muck on the bottom. All at once, Helmut realized that he had misjudged the fens—or at least this part of them. They were not friendly, nor even neutral; it seemed to him that he could sense enmity all about him.

  But he was only a short way in, and it would be simple to turn and come out. He braked with the pole, then looked behind him; and he was startled to see how far he had come. It was a long way back to open water, and the corridor in the reeds was very narrow here. When he tried to turn the boat, it got tangled in the growth and, with his single hand, he could not maneuver it. Nor, because of its construction, wide and awkward at the stern, could he pole i
t straight backward. Perhaps a man full-grown could have, but his strength was insufficient.

  Panting and sweating, he finally got the craft loose from the weeds and considered his situation. Well, he could see the sun. Take bearings from that, pole on; sooner or later the corridor would turn, and he could work back to open water. Meanwhile, it stank in here. Every thrust of his pole squilched down into rotting muck, sending up gurgling bubbles and a rank smell of decaying matter.

  On down the corridor he went, hoping for a turn, widening, or some other means of going back. There was none; and now the reeds seemed to have closed behind him, too. He was alone in a strange and foreign world; and he was very hot and very tired and beginning to be afraid. When the wind blew, the reeds and cane rustled strangely, exactly as if something stalked him; and every few seconds, he looked fearfully about. Mroggs did not seem so farfetched now.

  Presently his strength gave out, and he rested on the thwart, pole across his knees, the boat motionless in water utterly black and still. The reeds towered over him, shutting out the sky. He could understand now just how neatly he had trapped himself in this maze of narrow, wandering aisles; and for the first time, he wondered what had created these waterways in the beginning: they were very like game trails in the forest.

  But there was nothing for it but to go on. He was, after all, the son of Sigrieth, and fear was unseemly, unbecoming, to a princeling. That did not much slow the hammering of his heart, but, doggedly, he arose and was just about once more to dip the pole in water when he saw it.

  First, it was a thrashing in the reeds against the wind.

  Something huge was wallowing through them only five meters ahead and twenty to his left. For a pair of frozen seconds, he stared at that commotion, his throat closed utterly with fear: then he caught the scent.

  It was like the decaying reek of the marsh bottom, only a thousand times stronger. It filled the corridor in the reeds with a stench indescribable, all rot and decay, and suddenly his throat was full of hot bile. Then the mrogg plunged into view, almost close enough to touch, and Helmut spat out vomit even as, despairingly, he raised the boat pole.

  Roughly man-shaped, it possessed head, torso, arms, legs. But these were the only similarities to humankind. Not an arm’s span from the prow of the boat, it stood ten feet tall and was nearly as wide; and in place of flesh there was only amorphous, sloughing muck—the rot and mud of swamps, dark black and dripping, bound with slime and some other hideous matter. Its eyes, if it had eyes, were dark pits in a huge, round, formless head, and its mouth was a wide black cave, fully opened as it confronted Helmut. Then, slowly, as if very sure of itself, it raised dripping arms from which rot sloughed and fell, mud dropped, and took the final giant step that brought it up against the boat.

  So that now it blotted out everything else, reaching for him, its reek and horror like a nightmare. There was one terrible heartbeat in which Helmut knew it had him. Then, quite instinctively, he slashed at it with the pole.

  A scream broke from him as the pole’s hardness knocked rotten chunks off that monstrous form. But the creature noticed not, as if it had neither blood nor nerves. Just before the hands, if that was what they were, closed on him with finality, Helmut struck again, and this time he did knock loose a hand itself. To his horror, it was like hitting wet mud.

  But the mrogg saw now that the pole could do it damage. It hesitated, and Helmut thrust again, straight into its chest. There was no resistance, the pole went on through, but the boat moved back a foot, maybe more. Helmut heard himself screaming; he drew back the pole and raised it high to flail. If the creature were that soft, maybe he could slash it in two. But as he brought it down, the boat rocked; suddenly it turned, and he was plunged beneath the surface of the foul water. For an instant, he knew he was dead; then he found marsh bottom and somehow floundered upright, sinking to his knees in muck, the water to his chest; and yet, instinctively, he had drawn his short sword. As he surfaced, threw water from his eyes, he saw black monstrousness towering above him, smelled that hideous black reek, and then, even as he thrust and slashed with the sword, he felt a touch he would never forget—cold as death and twice as foul. The mrogg had him now; the little sword was useless against all that bulk of black, unfeeling slime. The cavernous mouth yawned above his head, and the hideous odor that came from it made him faint as it hit his face full blast. He was being lifted—

  Then there came an animal roar that seemed to shake the very sky. Helmut fell, hit water; went under, came up. The roaring still went on, a rage so great, so deadly, that it chilled the blood. A hand seized him. “Back!” snapped the voice of Sandivar. “Back, out of harm’s way!”

  Helmut’s vision cleared. As Sandivar dragged him backward, he saw two enormous figures locked in combat in the water—all black mud and slime and wet brown fur. Then a cry broke from him. “Waddle! Waddle!”

  “Aye,” Sandivar gasped. “Come. Farther back. Give him room to fight!”

  The huge bear must have plunged out of the reeds and hit the mrogg full on. His great weight had knocked it backward, tearing Helmut from its grasp. Now bear and monster fought like titans in the swamp, the big jaws of Waddle, the great paws, tearing off enormous chunks of slime. Yet, no matter how much Waddle ripped away, the creature’s size never lessened, as if it were self-renewing, drawing replacement instantly from the floor of the bog. And it had strength, enormous strength, and if it could bear Waddle down, hold him under water—

  Over and over they rolled, first Waddle on top, then the mrogg. What was left of the monster was a parody of its former shape, but its volume, its bulk, remained the same. By sheer weight of dead wet mud and rot, it was bearing Waddle down. Each time he was pressed below the surface, it took a little longer for the bear to fight back up.

  Then Waddle and the mrogg rose from the water together, Waddle on his hind legs, huge paws flailing. Great gouts of mrogg ichor flew with each enormous blow, and yet, no matter how much Waddle knocked away, the creature’s body flowed and changed to replace it. Near him, above the hideous roaring of Waddle, Helmut was vaguely aware that Sandivar was muttering words. Then the sorcerer pointed one long finger, and a cry that was half scream came from him, so weird that Helmut remembered it long after. Suddenly Waddle dropped on all fours, plunged splashing along the corridor toward them. And the mrogg, standing fully erect made no effort to pursue.

  Sandivar stood also, that finger pointed.

  The mrogg remained motionless. Then—

  Helmut stared, wide-eyed, as the thing began to change. As if the slime and ichor that bound its rot together had suddenly dissolved, the mrogg’s body collapsed and flowed, head melting into shoulders, shoulders pouring down the arms, arms dropping off, the whole thing sinking lower in the water, like a figure of mud so saturated it could not longer stand. Indeed, Helmut saw, that was what was happening: under Sandivar’s spell, the mrogg was simply returning to its original components—mud and decay. Now it was almost level with the surface of the water. Then, from the formless heap of mud that by this time could have been anything, came suddenly a high-pitched, terrible, drawn-out scream, freighted with more agony than it seemed possible to bear. Then the last of the mud flowed and dissolved in the water; and the mrogg was gone.

  Helmut clung to Waddle and unashamedly began to cry.

  CHAPTER IV

  Now, Sandivar had postponed it as long as he could. There was sadness in him, as he circled the tower, wherein the child slept exhausted, and maybe there was fear, too. For it all depended, of course, on Helmut’s own free choice; without that, none of Sandivar’s labors meant anything, and the world, henceforward, would belong to Albrecht and his kind.

  Oh, it had been a near thing, Sandivar told himself. And carelessness, utter and inexcusable, on his part. Maybe it had been too long since he was young: he should have remembered that to the young a warning was nothing but a challenge. If the mrogg had found the child a half minute earlier, if Waddle had been a half minute slow
er—Sandivar shuddered.

  Well, his news had been quickly gathered, and, as he had expected, it was all bad. Then he and Waddle had started for home at once. All through the night they had journeyed, and morning had found them in the fens. There, halting for rest on a hummock, Sandivar had become aware of something wrong.

  Through long training, such matters reached him the way odors in the air might reach another. There was, next, the necessary concentration, a wracking process, until at last he saw it all, as if he himself were a high, circling tiercel—the boy deep in the fens, the mrogg catching scent of human flesh and rousing itself… Then there had been the nightmare race against time, with Waddle running, plunging, swimming, crashing across the fens like some giant war machine. Then brave Waddle attacking without hesitation as Sandivar slid from his back, fighting a hopeless battle against an unbeatable foe—but giving Sandivar time to marshal the long and complicated incantation that was sole sure weapon against such a soulless, heartless, mindless, bloodless creature. Well, all had come out fair, but only by a hair’s breadth. And now—Sandivar turned and faced the tower door again. Now it was time.

  Helmut had just awakened and was knuckling at his eyes. The boy yawned cavernously. “Say, good Sandivar, what hour is it?”

  “From morning to evening you’ve slept. E’en now, the sun goes down. Are you refreshed?”

  As memory returned, Helmut shivered. “Refreshed? Nightmares shall I have for a month.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sandivar. “And perhaps not. Perhaps ere long you shall look on worse and smile. But first—” He poured a mug of cold water and handed it to the boy. “But first, important news have I gathered. And I think you will find it sad.”